


A Serpent in His Light

by Arcafira



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcafira/pseuds/Arcafira
Summary: Aziraphale is unsettled by the negative emotions hanging around Crowley's flat. He's particularly concerned about the tension concentrated in the houseplants and helps both Crowley and his plants find a little more warmth and peace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom is so amazing that it's inspired me to write fanfiction for the first time in my life. Thank you.

“A bit dark in here,” said the angel.

Crowley closed the door to his flat behind them.

“And a little . . . sparse. Ah, minimalist, I mean. Is that the fashionable word they’re using these days?”

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, quietly observing the angel for a moment. He was still wearing his sunglasses, but he couldn’t hide the good-natured smirk that eventually broke through. “First time you accept my offer to stay at my place, and you say ‘a bit dark’?” he teased. “D’you expect—” He waived a hand. “—kittens and doilies?”

“I didn’t intend my critique critically.”

“It’s no bookshop,” admitted Crowley.

“It’s no bookshop,” said Aziraphale, already wandering down the hall. He trailed his hand along the slate walls, looked up, looked down.

Crowley followed at a distance, measuring Aziraphale’s reactions. “Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” he asked.

“Oh, ah.” Aziraphale turned back to see Crowley’s long-fingered hands cupped around a mug of steaming cocoa that had only just materialized. The demon, smirk gone, extended it to him. The angel watched the steam curl up from the mug for a few seconds, then accepted, careful not to touch the demon’s hands as he did. “Thank you,” he said more seriously than he’d intended, then smiled to soften the words. He stared down into the mug.

“Don’t look like I’ve offered you an apple,” Crowley said, circling the angel, leaning in a bit close. The demon’s movement struck Aziraphale with the phantom sensation of a snake slithering up the length of his body and winding tight. Not necessarily in a threatening way, the angel decided. More an embrace. Crowley cracked a smile. “It’s a joke, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “I know.” He sipped the cocoa, winced. “You made it a smidge too hot.”

“That’s hot?” said Crowley, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged.

The angel was wandering again. “What’s that?” he asked pointing.

“Good old Leonardo!” Crowley exclaimed too loudly. All he could think of was the safe concealed by the sketch, and for a moment, his brain was on a loop: Ligur, holy water, Ligur, holy water. He wondered if, when Adam had restored the world, the holy water had been replaced behind the sketch.

Hand on the frame, Aziraphale paused, eyes closed. Frowned. “What happened here?”

“Sense something spooky?”

“I’m serious, Crowley. There’s something . . . sad, and beneath the fear, there’s a sense of loss.”

Even with the angel, sometimes Crowley was happy to have his glasses. “Maybe some energy from the previous owner.”

The demon sauntered off, and Aziraphale was left with two awkward choices and only one polite one. He could stay and press the issue (and thus spoil the mood). He could stay and examine the sketch more—though he was not certain what he sensed was emanating from the sketch itself—which would mean standing alone in someone else’s house. Or he could follow Crowley and just be thankful for a peaceful moment together. Of course, he chose to follow Crowley.

He found him, plant mister in hand, in a room filled floor-to-ceiling with verdant plants. Here, finally, was a tall window. “Let there be light,” Aziraphale sighed with relief.

Crowley glanced at him before returning his attention to his plants. He might have rolled his eyes behind his glasses. If he did, it was an eye-roll of endearment.

“Oh, these are wonderful!” the angel exclaimed, but when he reached out to one of the tallest plants, a rubber tree, there was an odd feeling again. Different this time, but also negative. He retreated. Crowley, watching behind his dark glasses, noticed. Aziraphale tried to recover. “They look so healthy!” he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “How do you do it?”

Again, Crowley shrugged. “Just water, I ‘spose.” He pointed at the window. “Sunlight. Fertilizer sometimes.”

“Fertilizer?”

“Fertilizer,” Crowley repeated.

“I-I don’t think you’re quite telling the truth.”

“My plants look like this and you think I’m slacking?”

Aziraphale gripped the still-too-hot cocoa as if he could channel his emotions away into its heat. “I don’t think,” started Aziraphale carefully, “that you’re caring for them in an entirely _human_ way.” He reached out for the tall rubber plant again and ran his hand along its stem. Tangled knots of fear and anxiety seemed to hold the plant upright. Though fatigued, it would never droop. Aziraphale closed his eyes again and mentally massaged at the knots, sending reassurance down into the plant’s roots. The knots released. The plant seemed to _breathe_.

Smiling, Aziraphale looked to Crowley, but the demon’s mouth was set in a hard line. “Angel,” he said. “I can take care of my plants. Have been taking care of my plants for decades now. That one—” He pointed to the plant Aziraphale had just touched. “—was my first and has survived all these years.”

“And it’s very pretty,” Aziraphale offered.

“But you think there’s something wrong with it.” Not a question, a statement.

The angel tried not to fidget under the demon’s shaded gaze. He did wish he’d take the glasses off. “Just, ah.” Aziraphale glanced at the plant again. “They feel a tad tense. Perhaps try a different _fertilizer_.”

Crowley sighed and set aside his plant mister. “Come sit down, angel,” he said, leading the way to the office.

Despite the overwhelming color palette of gray on darker gray on black, Aziraphale found that he did indeed like this room very much. Crowley’s neatly shelved collection of CDs reminded him of his own space, although he thought that everyone could always use more books. Crowley slumped onto a sofa that looked too stylishly low and flat to be comfortable, but Aziraphale sat with him anyway, perched neatly on the edge of the cushion. He blew on his cocoa, tried to taste it again. Still too hot. He set it to rest on the glass coffee table. Crowley finally slipped off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He folded the glasses carefully and set them on the table next to Aziraphale’s mug. The two stared at the items for a moment, quiet.

In the silence, Crowley struggled over how to best express his tangle of emotions. How many times had he invited—sometimes pleaded—with the angel to stay with him? And now he was here. Had finally acquiesced to spend the night. Crowley hadn’t thought he’d be so nervous to have the angel walking through his flat and touching his things, hadn’t given it a thought at all, really, but Aziraphale seemed not to like it. Seemed downright uncomfortable—the way he worried the hem of his coat and sat far from Crowley as if afraid of touching him. He’d dreamed of this moment so long that he hadn’t thought of the possible ways it could go wrong.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was working himself up to ask about the negative energy he’d sensed in the flat. What was Crowley when he was alone? He was a demon, yes, but what the angel sensed was not the general evil aura of a demon. This was a deep and personal pain.

But then the demon said, “You’re finally here, angel,” and looked him full in the face with those golden serpentine eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t ask his questions now. He’d known Crowley long enough to understand that his look and tone meant— _I’m happy you’re here. I value your presence_ —even if he couldn’t say those exact words. Again, Aziraphale didn’t want to ruin the moment with his concern.

“I am,” he said, and reached for his mug again so that he had something to occupy his hands. Otherwise, he’d fidget.

Crowley cocked his head as if waiting for the rest of Aziraphale’s response. The angel took a long drink of hot cocoa, deciding it was preferable to scald his tongue than say any more.

Crowley looked away so that the angel couldn’t see his face. _Oh, I’ve ruined it_ , thought Aziraphale. The silence settled again. “Thank you for inviting me,” the angel finally managed to say. “Thank you for all your invitations. Even the one to—where was it?”

Crowley turned back, all smiles. “Alpha Centuari. Could still visit sometime if you want.”

Aziraphale laughed, and for a moment, they both felt perfect.

“Do you think you’ll be happy, you know, now that Hell will leave you alone for a while?” Aziraphale ventured.

“Maybe. Don’t know what I’ll do with myself without the endless list of temptations to fulfill.” He thought. “It’d be nice not to have to go another hundred years without seeing you. You’ll stay in London, won’t you? For your shop and all?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Another silence.

“I mean, do you think you’ll be _well_?”

“What’re you on about? Spit it out, angel.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “This place is filled with sadness, loneliness, fear. Yours, isn’t it?”

Crowley was on his feet, already pacing the room. “D’you always have to be so damn _perceptive_? Just relax for once,” he said.

“I can’t relax when your tension is all around me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said into his mug. “I can’t help it. I don’t _want_ to sense it. But it’s all over—like, like spiritual clutter.”

Crowley spread his arms, tried to say something, let his hands fall back uselessly to his sides. Even if the angel was cagey about his own feelings, Crowley resolved that he would tell Aziraphale everything if it would make him stay. He desperately wanted his glasses, but instead of reaching for them, he said, “What do you want to know?”


	2. A Serpent, Failing the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two, in which Crowley attempts to talk to his plants nicely, wrestles with 6,000 years of emotional baggage, and worries that he's disappointing Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst in this chapter than in the first, but I'm planning a happy ending.

Aziraphale abandoned his mug and wandered back to the room of plants. Crowley, having lost some of the spring in his saunter, followed. The angel reached out to the plants again, bracing for the current of tension he knew he would find. He could dispel it as he had done with the tall rubber tree, but Crowley had done something to instill this fear and anxiety in the plants. Surely, Crowley could reverse it as well. And it was his flat after all. Aziraphale understood that he would not like someone meddling in how he kept his bookshop either.

“So, angel?” came Crowley’s voice behind him, but Aziraphale waited as long as he could to turn and face him.

“Tell me what you’ve created here,” said Aziraphale, leaving the request intentionally vague.

“Plants, y’know. Gives me something to do. When I’m actually at home and not away . . . doing stuff. Nice to have growing things around.” Aziraphale nodded solemnly at this and something snapped in Crowley. “Why are you so stuck on the plants, of all things? Would have thought you’d seen your share of unnaturally lustrous plants in Eden.”

“In Eden?”

“You being the guardian of the eastern gate and all.”

“I _know_ what my duty was. What I’m ‘stuck on’ is you comparing your care of _these plants_ to the first creation of the Almighty Herself.”

“Course I’m not. And anyway, I thought you and She weren’t really talking much after everything.”

“'Weren’t really talking much’!” Aziraphale grasped at words, but his fear of Falling rose again, choking off whatever he might have said. The idea that he did not often talk to God—absurd! _Absurd_ , he thought, because what Crowley had said was so unexpectedly true. After dealing with all those bad angels. After the ordeal with the Metatron. After meeting the _very human_ antichrist. He had not thoroughly dealt with the way his faith in Her had been shaken.

Crowley rubbed his eyes again. “Angel, you keep repeating what I say, only louder.”

“And now you’ve gotten me off topic,” said Aziraphale, unnecessarily straightening his coat. “What I’m trying to say is that your flat feels—”

“Spooky?”

“I’m serious, Crowley!”

“You’re right. Right.” Crowley tried to emotionally sober up.

“I’m only asking questions because I already know you’re not quite alright.”

Sarcasm was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit back the defensive instinct. “You think I’m not alright because my plants are too nice and some rooms in my flat are too dark?” Crowley said. He meant to be serious, but as always, coming from him, it had an edge of sarcasm.

“They’re terrified!” Aziraphale practically burst. He’d been meaning to lead Crowley into his own confession and conclusion but couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I know you don’t have much respect for the Almighty, but you must respect Her creation. And this is not proper care.”

There. He’d said it. Aziraphale tried not to fidget with his coat in the silence. This is exactly what he’d meant not to do. How long had he been pushing Crowley away and admonishing him for his ideas?

“You don’t understand,” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale simultaneously wanted to step closer to hear him better and back away from the emotion he sensed simmering beneath the surface. “I can’t care for them as a human or as an angel because I’m a _demon_. You know how they motivate people in Hell? Want me to describe it to you?”

“That’s not entirely necessary, no,” said Aziraphale.

“I’m only doing what I know how.”

“You’re doing to the plants what Hell did to you.”

His smile was brittle. “Yes.”

“Let me show you a different way.” Aziraphale approached Crowley as if he was a coiled snake that might strike unexpectedly at any moment. The demon’s hand was cold when he took it.

Crowley felt a jolt at the angel’s touch that reminded him of something old and lost, something he had nearly forgotten. The way the angel looked up at him with that open blue gaze reminded him of the warmth he’d felt under the watchfulness of the Almighty herself. After the Fall he’d always been cold, unable to warm himself without the raging heat of hellfire. He’d preferred being in the human world, being eternally cold. But now he felt he could bask in the warmth of the angel forever, could have this small expression of the divine smile on him.

The rubber tree shuddered when Crowley glanced at it. He hoped the angel didn’t notice, but he didn’t need to worry. Azirapahale’s warm, reassuring gaze had never left him.

Hand in hand, they approached the plants. Crowley swallowed and turned his face to the sunrays streaming in through the high window. He needed warmth to remember how to feel whole. He needed wholeness to remember his soul, damned though it was, and its capacity for vulnerability and connectedness and love—yes, even love. “What do I know about care? Who’s ever cared for me, angel?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, shut it again. Then, softly, “ _I’ve_ cared for you. I always will—even if I’ve not done a tip top job of telling you all these years.” He muttered this last part. Angels are not practiced in giving confessions or asking for forgiveness because they, in their ethereal light, operate under the will of the Almighty and see forgiveness as a strictly human need.

“You might’ve been lousy at it,” Crowley said with a wink. Demons, on the other hand, are not practiced in giving or receiving forgiveness because they have refused to practice. Firstly, the Almighty’s decision to, in Her infinite capacity for grace and forgiveness, declare some souls of Her own creation ‘unforgivable’ ensured that no one would ever be in the position of asking a Fallen for forgiveness. Who’d seek forgiveness from the lowest of the low? All a demon could really do was go round _not_ forgiving other demons—and they were good at that. But somehow, in all Her wide ineffable plan, She had not accounted for a certain principality now asking, albeit awkwardly, for forgiveness from one of the very souls She had damned.

For demons, there is a resolute pride in being unforgivable. An identity in being unforgivable, in committing to one’s actions and providing no apology. This, now, is what Crowley struggled with.

To let Aziraphale show him another way would mean, by way of his actions, _apologizing_ to the plants. What self-respecting demon _apologized_ to _plants_?

He did, apparently.

Crowley straightened and nodded to the rubber tree that Aziraphale had . . . healed? Was that the right word? If he chose it, it would mean acknowledging that he’d done something wrong, something that required healing from. Usually, doing wrong did not bother him. He aimed to do no good. This time was different. “So, angel, show me what you did.”

“Well,” started Aziraphale, bending down to a tiny plant whose beautifully variegated leaves were nearly lost in the shade of the rubber tree. “Let’s start small.”

Their hands were still clasped, and when Aziraphale moved, Crowley was tugged closer to the plants. They shivered slightly at his approach, though he didn’t think he was radiating the usual amount of frustration.

“That’s odd,” said Aziraphale.

“Must’ve left a window open somewhere. A draft.”

“Hm. Come closer. Here, hold this one.”

Crowley settled next to Aziraphale on the cool floor. He shivered. The plant shivered. Aziraphale watched closely as Crowley cupped the small plastic pot in his hands. He’d not replanted this one into a more permanent container yet. He never did until they proved to him that they were worth keeping and would establish themselves among the others.

“This one hasn’t built up as much tension as the others,” Aziraphale explained. “But I think it still needs reassurance. You can sense its distress, can’t you? Just give it a—a hug of sorts. It’s important that it feel an overall sense of wellbeing down to its roots. This way, it can grow from a place of happiness and security.”

“You know what I look like sitting on the floor like this? Listening to you say that?”

“Oh, hush,” said Aziraphale. “Try.”

“If Hastur saw me now, he’d be convinced he’d have no problem killing me,” Crowley grumbled, his squinted eyes gleaming an even more vibrant yellow in the sunlight.

“Don’t remind me of that dreadful ordeal.”

“Fine, angel.” He closed his eyes as he’d seen Aziraphale do earlier. When he tried to sense the plant, its essence shied away from him as if the plant could move and had scuttled into the farthest corner. “Hey, I—I didn’t mean to yell at you,” he said. Oh, he was trying.

“Be honest,” Aziraphale prompted.

“I’m—” He clenched his jaw. “—sorry for being—scary?”

The essence of the plant floated back. Tentatively, but it did return. Aziraphale placed a soft hand over one of Crowley’s as if to steady him. “Now, the roots,” he reminded.

Crowley searched deep for a sense of—what had the angel said?—wellbeing, happiness, security to bestow on the plant and found little to draw from. There were his dinner dates with the angel, less frequent than he would have liked but cherished all the more for it. The relief of knowing that, yes, Aziraphale was still alive and Crowley’s resulting renewed hope in existence. But there was so much, also, over the course of his six-thousand years that threatened to overwhelm these scant drops of happiness. He did not enjoy examining the state of his own soul so closely. In fact, he hated it.

Soul-searching, for Crowley, was like swimming through a void of water populated with far-flung lights that never seemed to get any closer, no matter how much he swam. And then, eventually, he thought he might become irrecoverably fatigued from all the swimming, the longing to reach happiness, and in darkness, sink and sink.

If it was possible, Crowley’s hand felt even colder under Aziraphale’s touch. The angel sensed a shift. “Crowley?” he ventured.

His golden eyes were glossy when he opened them. He returned the plant to its shaded home under the rubber tree and, with his back to Aziraphale, sighed, “Let’s try another day, angel.”


	3. An Angel in His Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes Crowley to a plant nursery with the hope of inspiring a new approach in Crowley's care for his plants.

Crowley closed the door to his bedroom and slept on the ceiling. Rather, he pretended to sleep and listened to Aziraphale pace between the office and the plant room. He’d wanted to invite Aziraphale to bed. He wanted so badly to sleep in the aftermath of the apocalypse—specifically, to sleep with the angel securely in his arms—but in spite of everything they’d been through together, his hesitancy persisted. When Aziraphale settled down sometime in the still-dark morning, Crowley thought he heard a page turn. No, he most definitely heard a page turn, and he doubted Aziraphale was leafing through his astronomy book. Must’ve miracled some books over from his shop.

He turned over. His skin prickled. He put a finger to the serpentine mark on his cheek and pressed. Something was starting, he sensed. Not something so big and awful as the apocalypse, but something that would interrupt this precious time with Aziraphale. This precious time that he’d wasted sulking for the past several hours.

“Fine,” he breathed to no one.

He climbed down from the ceiling and found the angel exactly where he’d supposed he would: in the office, book in hand. However, instead of sitting, Aziraphale was standing by the desk chair, studying it as if trying to discern its purpose.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley asked, stepping into the room.

Aziraphale started, the book snapping shut in his hands. “I um—” He ran his hand over the back of the chair and wouldn’t look at Crowley.

“You sense something else?” He’d tried to keep the gloom out of his voice and failed. When Aziraphale hesitated, he added, “Be honest.”

Aziraphale set the book on the desk and closed the space between him and Crowley. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said. His arms twitched at his sides.

“What, angel?” Crowley pressed. He could only guess at what the other was sensing. The past few days couldn’t have attached any particularly happy memories or emotions to the space. Could he feel the residue of his desperate one-sided conversation with Her? Did he feel the ghost of his fear as he prepared to defend himself from the dukes of Hell?

“Might I hold you?” Aziraphale asked in a rush of breath.

Such warmth. Crowley stepped away from it. He hadn’t wanted to. He felt he could bathe in Aziraphale’s warmth like a wilted and sun-starved plant, but he was so rarely invited into the light. He didn’t know how to simply step into it. Despite everything, the nagging sense that he was unworthy persisted.

“I suppose— I understand some people are touch-averse. It’s okay if . . . “ the angel fumbled, and that’s when Crowley realized that he’d been too stunned to answer.

And like that, the opportunity passed. Crowley took another involuntary step back. One learned to commit themself to their unworthiness, their damnation. Loss hurt less that way.

Of course, Aziraphale misinterpreted it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not that,” Crowley rushed to say. “You’re so kind.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to know what to make of that.

“You caught me off guard is all,” he said and immediately regretted his wording. As if one had to guard against kindness! The angel’s confused frown depended, and Crowley was regretting leaving his bedroom ceiling.

“It’s not been so long since the world’s been righted. Perhaps I should—“ Aziraphale worried his waistcoat. “—give you some time alone? Time to think? I could go—”

“No, no. I do want you here.”

So they were back to their standstill.

“Let’s get out tomorrow, yeah? Let’s go do something,” Crowley rushed to fill the silence.

“I had something in mind, actually,” Aziraphale said, but his hopeful look fell too soon. “I don’t know if you’d be up to it anymore.”

“Tell me,” Crowley said gently, forcing his tone to match how he felt. It was too easy to tease and snark when he didn’t mean to.

“There’s this delightful little plant nursery I found. You could show me something that might do well in the bookshop perhaps. Now that I’ve seen your place, I thought, well, that the bookshop could use some greenery to liven it up.”

This time, Crowley caught himself before he stared for too long and ruined the moment. “Of course! Yeah, actually. Yes, that sounds nice,” he said, then chastised himself for overdoing it. But then Aziraphale’s sunny smile returned, and he knew he’d done something right.

—

The clouds had cleared as if for their visit specifically, and Crowley was so enraptured by the rows of plants sunning just outside the doors to the nursery’s main greenhouse that Aziraphale thought he might never get Crowley properly inside.

“’S too bad we don’t have a proper yard,” he was saying as he reached to stroke the bark of one of the saplings. “They’re gorgeous.”

“What?” said Aziraphale, all thoughts of plants scattering on the gentle breeze. It was Crowley’s _we_. _Our yard_ , thought Aziraphale who was thinking nothing at all of yards in the moment.

Crowley was too busy beaming at the sapling to notice. “What do you mean ‘what’? Can’t you see how perfect they are, angel?”

“Yes, they are, rather,” Aziraphale managed to reply. He had a steady smile ready for Crowley when he finally turned to face him. “There’s more if you want to go inside.”

A woman on her way to the register with a bouquet of flowers welcomed them as they entered. Aziraphale smiled and nodded politely. Crowley was already at a nearby shelf as if he’d teleported himself there.

“Made by local artisans,” Aziraphale read the sign above the shelves of clay pots. One that Crowley was particularly interested in had artful cracks in the finish that were reminiscent of scales.

“Maybe a beautiful pot like this would motivate them,” said Crowley.

“Motivate them to do what?”

“Grow better, y’know. Whoever grows best gets the fancy root house.”

“Do they have the capacity to compete with each other?”

“‘Course!”

“Is that really fostering the most nurturing environment? If— If a parent treasures some of her children above others, then . . .” The angel trailed off. He thought he could redirect, but Crowley was already scowling.

“Did you really want help finding a plant for your shop or did you bring me here to lecture me?”

Aziraphale gestured nervously. “Lead the way.”

The floor of the nursery was strategically sloped to direct water to the drains set into the concrete floor. Little rivulets of water and potting soil flowed across their path from the morning watering. Aziraphale delicately stepped over them. Crowley splashed through them.

Now that he was no longer distracted by Crowley’s _we_ , now that there was a moment of peaceful silence between them as they walked through the wide rows of green, Aziraphale belatedly felt it: a pervasive sense of love in the air, heavy and palpable as the greenhouse humidity. Not as strong as what he’d felt in Tadfield but nonetheless unmistakable. He let himself be swept up in it and floated after Crowley, letting the demon’s whimsy guide them through the connected greenhouses.

“You have that wonderful skylight.” Aziraphale realized Crowley was speaking to him. “And the banister upstairs. What about some vines? Something easy to take care of that will really compliment the place as it grows.”

“Well, really, anything could work anywhere. I could miracle it—“

“That’s cheating, angel. But I guess you were a guardian and not a gardener.” He chuckled, too amused at his own joke. “Rubber plants like mine are pretty resilient. And if you manage to kill golden pathos, you’re hopeless.”

“Perhaps we could get matching plants and you could show me how to care for whatever we get.”

The bright sunlight on Crowley’s face made his golden eyes shine behind the dark lenses of his glasses just before he looked away bashfully. “Sounds good,” he mumbled.

—

Aziraphale settled on the golden pathos after Crowley charmed him with pictures demonstrating how gracefully they could climb along walls and drape in green falls over the sides of hanging pots.

“How do you summon all these pictures?” the angel asked, frowning at the phone screen.

“It’s Instagram, angel. Other people share them.”

“How did you get all these humans to give their pictures to you?”

Crowley stared for a second, then realized Aziraphale wasn’t joking. “They don’t share them with me specifically. Anyone can find them.”

On the ride to the bookshop, Crowley found himself explaining how social media worked, how Aziraphale could find all kinds of plant care tips online if he had a computer that would run any modern browser. Aziraphale was so engrossed in trying to understand Crowley’s descriptions of modern technology that, for once, he didn’t even notice Crowley’s speeding.

A table under the bookshop skylight became home to the little vine. Aziraphale even cleared off a haphazard stack of books to make room for the plant, so Crowley knew he was taking the matter seriously. He taught the angel how to read the care symbols on the plastic tag, advised him on when and how much to water and fertilize the soil. When the angel blinked at all the information, Crowley added, “But of course, I’ll be over regularly. We can do this together, and you’ll get the hang of it.”

Then, Aziraphale smiled at him gratefully, and Crowley was struck again by how much he wanted to melt into the angel’s warmth and never leave its glow.

“Let’s get yours settled in too, then?” suggested Aziraphale, breaking Crowley’s reverie.

He stammered a bit. “Well, I mean, I’m the expert here. I’m sure I could do it myself. You don’t have to . . .” He trailed off at Aziraphale’s look.

“We agreed that we’re doing this together.”

“Yes, well—”

“And that you were going to help me take care of this plant while I helped you be kinder to yours.”

Crowley made a big show of patting all his pockets down for the Bentley’s keys so that he wouldn’t have to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, so that he had some way of releasing all his nervous energy. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

“Ah!” said Crowley, the keys suddenly appearing in his hand.

Aziraphale was not impressed by the performance. Crowley grumbled. “Yeah. Come on, then.”

Once they were both back in the car, the Bentley roared to life—no key necessary. Crowley hadn’t even bothered to make a show of putting the keys anywhere near the ignition, had let them vanish back to wherever they rested when not needed, which was always. On the ride to Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s pathos as if it were a bright-eyed rescued kitten. He kept glancing over at the angel, who he sensed was speaking to the plant even though the car remained silent and his lips never moved.

“What’re you doing to my plant?” Crowley asked. Goodness was practically radiating from Aziraphale like the glow of a halo.

“We’re just having a little talk.”

“Oh yeah?”

The angel hummed his acknowledgment.

“What about?” Crowley pressed.

“You.”

“Me? What about me?”

“That I quite like you. That the sunlight in your apartment is nice—and that you are too.”

Crowley grumbled, suppressed the desire to dispute his niceness. “That it?”

“And that it’ll have many friends.”

The pressure in Crowley’s head built on the lift ride up to his flat. Aziraphale had made him hold the plant, and he’d never felt so unequipped to take care of something so familiar in his entire life. He felt like a clumsy new dad who might be scolded any moment for holding his child wrong, for not properly supporting its tender, fragile life.

At the door to his flat, he ventured, “Why don’t I drop this one off and we can have lunch first? You know? It’s not good to do these things on an empty stomach.”

The angel stared at him, and, oh, he knew that stare. There’d be no tempting Aziraphale with food. Not this time.

“Right,” he breathed and willed the door open.

He couldn’t help but notice Aziraphale’s small shiver when they stepped inside. He tried not to let on that he’d noticed. He tried, as he always did in these small moments where the difference between them opened like a gulf, not to let the reminder of his fallenness completely drown him. Again and again, through the ages, he’d fought and lost this battle with himself over the most inconsequential things. He’d never said anything to Aziraphale about it, afraid that the angel would look at him like a thing to be pitied or—the worse and more likely thing—that Aziraphale would feel guilty for something he had no power over.

He set the plant in the middle of the floor among the others and backed away as if from a wild animal. He made himself breathe. He didn’t need to but found that in times like this, the oxygen helped.

“You should introduce them,” Aziraphale prompted gently.

Crowley jammed his hands into his pockets. He felt as if the serpent within him was wringing itself into knots.

“Hey, guys,” he started. “So, as you know, last week I tossed out our newest friend—” The plants straightened at this, tense, ready for judgment. “—but I won’t be doing that anymore. I want you all to feel . . .” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale who nodded encouragingly. “I want you to feel accepted and loved.” This last word was the hardest to say and somehow, despite having no slippery consonants, came out as a hiss. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Loved,” he said, as if a lump had settled in his throat and wouldn’t budge. “I’ve brought you all a new friend.”

The plants leaned ever so slightly towards the newcomer. They rustled their leaves at Crowley. Some dropped a leaf or two in shock. Crowley watched them flutter to the ground. He clenched his jaw. The plants tensed again. He made himself relax. The serpent in him uncoiled. He picked up the fallen leaves carefully, studied their softness, their life.

He spoke to the plants again but looked at Aziraphale as he said, “I want to be able to forgive.”

The angel joined Crowley in the shade of the tallest rubber tree and cupped his warm hands around Crowley’s cold ones, the reassuring warmth easing the remaining tension from his body.

“Stay with me, angel,” he whispered. _Let me stay in your light. Let me believe I can deserve this warmth_.

“Always,” answered Aziraphale, closing their hands over the leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took me forever to update. Grad school and mental health stuff were kicking my ass. Thank you for all your encouraging comments and for reading to the end! This fandom is a source of joy for me every day, and I love you all.


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